


Waiting

by cardamon_k



Series: The Storyteller [1]
Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Angst, F/M, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:37:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardamon_k/pseuds/cardamon_k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a storyteller's power, this is how a man and duck communicate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laura47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laura47/gifts).



> Laura47, my deepest and most sincere apologies, this fic is woefully inadequate and to be quite honest, such a fucking tease. I had this grand plot in mind but as you can imagine, time ran away from me and the long Tutu fic where Fakir and Ahiru actually talk, which was crafted just for you, is not ready. Please accept this Yuletide gift in its place and when I finish my long Tutu fic, you will be the first to know. Happy Holidays and all my best to you and yours.

 

“And one two, get ready now, the pas de chat, and plié – Miss Jane, you must _raise_ the left leg into retiré, yes, excellent, Miss Charlotte please look to your arms when you land -”

 

As the ending notes to Swan Lake's third Act faded, Fakir crossed his arms and gazed critically at his dancers. They had done well, he knew, in spite of the small errors that still occurred after three months of training. Not everyone could be like Rue, a naturally born prima ballerina, and the town was no longer under Drosselmeyer's control. He glanced at Jane and Charlotte, both downcast and worried. This town and its people were no longer fantasy perfections but real and their dances were not written by a master puppeteer but created independently from their hearts.

 

“Well done,” he said, after clapping his hands for their attention, “There's still some work to do, in particular for the Grand Pas, but I'm very pleased with our progress today.”

 

Faces brightened and exhales of relief and satisfaction spread among the seated students. Inwardly, Fakir was amused. Another time and place, he would have been harsh and cruel, careless with his words. A simple duck had taught him the importance of kindness. Yet it seemed his students were still intimidated by his serious demeanor.

 

He raised his voice. “Tomorrow we will attempt the Fourth Act. For now, practice your parts and rest early. I have high expectations for tomorrow.”

 

The din in the room increased at his dismissal. Fakir began clearing up the room as students left in groups, calling out their good-byes before heading to their dorms. He glanced up at the clock; just enough time to stop by the shops for dinner; perhaps the walnut bread and sharp cheese that Ahiru liked so much?

 

He locked the practice hall doors behind him, gave them a good shake to make sure they were locked. Across the street, he spied Piqué and Lilié just leaving the Café Grand, their arms linked, giggling together in a huddle as they jaunted out. Instinctively, he looked down and pulled the collar of his coat up. He could not control the sudden tightening of his shoulders, the desire to avoid them, just as he could not help but think of –

 

\- “Ahiru?” Lilié had said, her head cocked to one side and an open questioning expression on her face. “Is that someone I should know?”

 

\- and he had stood there, dumbfounded and had turned almost blindly seeking at Piqué, who looked more thoughtful, eyebrows furrowed.

 

“Ahiru,” she murmured and Fakir could almost taste the hope, surely he could not be the only one, surely these two, Ahiru's best friends would remember. But no, Piqué was shaking her head, while saying softly to herself, “I almost feel like I should know, there's just something familiar...” and Fakir knew it was useless. This was, after all, Drosselmeyer's power, to control the fate and memories of others. If a cat could one day simply become a ballet teacher and an ant eater could one day become a ballerina, was it so strange that a human girl could one day disappear, without a trace?

 

-*-*-

 

It was dark by the time Fakir arrived home. He approached the edge of the lake and knelt down, placing his lantern beside him on the dock.

 

“Ahiru,” he called and waited. A splash and a flit of feathered wings answered him and as he watched patiently, a duck swam eagerly towards him. She jumped up on the dock and flapped her wings, sending drops of cold water splattering across the wood and Fakir's shoes. As she settled herself, Fakir reached out and stroked her head gently, the feathers soft and dry.

 

“Hello,” he said gently. Ahiru quacked loudly and gingerly pecked his fingers. Carefully, he picked her up and settled her in the crook of his arm.

 

“How was your day?” he asked as he opened the door to their cottage. Fakir dropped the bread and cheese on the dining table and Ahiru jumped from his arms to nose the packages. He busied himself with starting a fire and behind him, he could hear Ahiru unwrapping the packages using her beak to push and pull wax paper aside.

 

With the fire steadily burning, Fakir brushed off his hands and watched as Ahiru painstakingly pushed the dishes in some semblance of setting the table. “Thank you,” he said and she gently butted her head against his stroking fingers.

 

-*-*-

 

“And so you see,” Fakir stroked Ahiru's feathers as they sat together by the fire, “rehearsals for the Spring Recital are going quite well. There are small adjustments that need to be made, but I think it will turn out to be quite a success.”

 

Ahiru's head turned to him and she gazed at him with her beady eyes. “Quack,” she said and then turned to furiously nuzzle and clean the feathers beneath her wing. Fakir's lips tightened. He turned towards the fire and sighed.

 

This was the part he hated the most. Waiting. It seemed the closer they were to midnight, the longer hours and minutes became until the time right before the witching hour felt like agony, a practice in patience he could not have borne as the young man he had been. But he had learned to compromise, Fakir thought somewhat bitterly. He could not let go of Ahiru and Ahiru could not let him lose himself in his writing, as he had been wont to do, in the heady beginning of their relationship when they finally found a way to communicate.

 

It had been a struggle in the beginning, a practice in the fine art of mindless and useless description. Too little and their connection was like smoke, wispy and insubstantial. He could hear her but not feel her in his mind and it felt like a cruel cheat when already their time together was limited. Too much and Fakir would never forget the shock between them when suddenly her beak had opened and she had said, “Good evening” but it had not been her voice and had not been her words and the writing on the parchment had sat between them, damning him and his power. Never again, he had vowed and though Ahiru had forgiven him, had in fact never held it against him, Fakir had spent the rest of the entire next day practicing still description so that he could stretch on the writing mindlessly without controlling anyone's fate.

 

Fakir would never admit it but sometimes his hand would ache with the need to write, to release his power and spin a tale. It was a relief, the evening visitors who bade him use his powers for the good of others. In the days after intervening to write of hopeful destinies leading to happy endings, the urge to narrate and control was almost absent when he spoke with Ahiru.

 

Thoughts like these made him feel a monster. For even when he spoke with her, he could feel how easy it would be to wrestle control, no, not even wrestle, it would be swift and silent and before Ahiru would even know anything was amiss, she would be a character once more in a story outside of her control, in love with him and a young woman, human, and his. Shuddering, he raised a hand to his face and closed his eyes.

 

A deep chime sounded from the clock before them. He opened his eyes and glanced up. All hands pointed to twelve. “Ready?” Fakir said with a smile and Ahiru quacked incessantly, high pitched and excited. He rose and walked over to the bureau in the corner. From his pocket, he withdrew a simple key and turned the lock to reveal parchment and quills laid out exactly as though prepared for letter writing. Beside the parchment where one might store envelopes, instead was a pillow indented as though someone had decided to take a nap.

 

Fakir picked up Ahiru and placed her gently on the pillow. She shifted, her wings ruffling as she made herself comfortable and Fakir opened the well of ink, dipped a sharpened nub into the ink, brought the quill to the parchment and began to write the familiar words.

 

 _It was midnight in the town of Cold Crown. All was quiet, all souls resting, except for in one cottage on the outskirts by the edge of a lake. For there in a humble cottage, lived a young storyteller and a duck, a special duck named Ahiru..._

 

It was almost painfully easy, the words flowing out, the beginning of a tale. He continued to write, describing Ahiru, her bright yellow feathers and the small tuft at the top of her head that stubbornly resisted any grooming. And as he did so, like a sigh, like a gate soundlessly slowly opening, he could hear in his mind -

 

“Fakir?”

 


End file.
